


The Tale of the Eyeless Man

by Golden_Boots



Category: Nymphomaniac (2013)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Oral Sex, Urination, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_Boots/pseuds/Golden_Boots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe tells Seligman her most secret fantasy.  She can’t predict if he’ll be shocked, intrigued or – more importantly – if he’ll understand.  Her fantasy involves a room and a naked man tied to a chair - the most important man in her life.</p><p>This story is based on characters in the Lars Von Trier films, “Nymphomaniac – Volumes I and II”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Eyeless Man

Joe let her cup rest on the quilt. She looked at Seligman frankly. “Why do you make excuses for me?”

He shook his head. “They’re not excuses. They’re psychological explanations of the curious sexual events you describe.”

“Yet you present them as methods for exorcising my feelings. A little catharsis, a little guilt and an excuse like a great sticking plaster to make it all better.”

He considered his hands. “Am I really so trite?”

“Take what I told you about lubricating when I saw my father’s dead body. You told me it is entirely natural to turn to sexual feelings when death looms near.”

“It is.”

“I suppose it is also natural for a girl to have sexual feelings towards her father.”

He nodded.

Her tone became wry as she parodied him. “It’s not eroticism as adults would know it, more a passion for our first male template, a desire to see ourselves as foremost in their passions, a sensuous extension of the pleasure we already take in the hugs and kisses all good fathers lavish upon their daughters.”

“You see?” he said excitedly, a lock of blond hair falling into his face. “You already know why you feel what you feel. You have embraced this Freudian truth that so many deny. I’m impressed, Joe.”

She cocked her head and spoke with great deliberation. “Then how is it that in my fantasy of my father – whom I always called ‘father’ – I refer to him as ‘Daddy’? The discerning incest fetishist’s label of choice.” She took a triumphant slug from her large cup.

Seligman scratched his head. “Suppose you tell me your fantasy and I promise not to analyse it afterward? But if you wish to analyse it yourself, I’m not going to stop you.”

Joe held out her cup and her dutiful saviour scuttled off to refill it. When he returned, she had her hands folded in her lap and a blank, almost pacific look on her face – that is, if one ignored the molten glow of her eyes.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You remember the story I told you about my work as a debt collector, and the paedophile I tortured and empathised with and sucked off? My fantasy about my father begins that way, with me called to a house to apply coercion to a client of L’s who has failed to pay up. Sometimes, I dream about it. I half wake, elaborate on it with fantasy and strive to return to the dream. If I do, some new tone or twist has been added. Both my conscious and unconscious mind have added to this fantasy as the years have gone by. It is my favourite and it is my best.

“I enter a room like a large state room lit by golden chandeliers. There’s no-one in this room except one man tied to an ormolu chair in the centre of the room. He is blindfolded and entirely naked. He is my father.

“In my fantasy, I can’t believe my luck but my father is afraid, turning his head towards the sound of someone in the room, face twitching. I know I’m not going to torture him, though. L’s expectations, my job – none of that matters now. All I care about is this wonderful opportunity.

“I pull up a chair and seat myself not quite opposite him. It’s my father and he’s nude and I can look at him. I can just look without shame or judgement – who is there to judge me?! I feast my eyes upon my Daddy, glorying in all the parts of him I have known and loved so well, and those that have always been secret from me, too. The light is very bright, nothing is hidden. My father was a very attractive man. He was only in his mid-forties when he died. I could describe him to you from head to toe but that’s not how I look at him. My eye jumps from location to location with the whims of my libido. His broad, handsome face is beaded with perspiration. It catches in the five o’clock shadow that graces his jaws, glittering there amongst the gold and silver hairs. Every now and then, he licks the sweat from his upper lip and I’m close enough to hear the sound of his tongue moving over his skin. It excites me, hearing and seeing his tongue moving. There’s hair on his chest, too – a light dusting across his pectoral muscles and down the centre of his abdomen. Sweat shines there like a sheet of silver. He is a strong, muscular man – his shoulders and thighs look strong – but he is vulnerable, too. So, so vulnerable. His bare feet and toes look little and lost. He moves them in random curling and flexing motions that reflect his nerves. He has a wonky big toe. I used to laugh about it when I was very little and he used to chase me, hopping around the house, wiggling that toe at me and telling me it was going to get me. I would scream! Now I want to weep for him, for that silly, wonky, human big toe of his.

“Like most men, he sits with his legs apart. Vulnerable though his situation might be, it still doesn’t occur to this quietly powerful man that sitting with his legs apart might not be a good idea. It’s innate. I look at his penis. It’s flaccid but still very interesting to me. He’s not circumcised but I can see the shape of the head hidden under the foreskin. His penis is just long enough for the tip to touch the seat of his chair with him sitting very upright.

“I take a moment out to savour this. I glance up at his face quickly, as if to confirm that it really is him I’m gazing upon, then back down to his lovely prick.

“I’d seen it once before, in real life. Father and I used to walk in the woods. He loved the trees and took pains to teach me the names of all the different species. One day, he got caught short and disappeared into a bramble thicket to relieve himself, making me promise to stay where I was until he returned. I disobeyed him. I crept into the undergrowth until he appeared from behind the trunk of a tree. He wasn’t nude. Of course he wasn’t, men don’t need to expose themselves much in order to urinate outdoors. But something new was visible in his hand, something I’d not seen before. It was pale and amorphous-looking. He stood erect and held on to it proudly, and as I watched, a jet of liquid shot out from the end. He was peeing! So, I thought, it must be his penis I was seeing. I couldn’t believe how far his stream went, making a grand arc, glittering and steaming in the autumn air. I was riveted. I never needed to touch myself when I peed and there seemed something so bold about this masculine act. I realised then that men are often more comfortable about touching their genitalia than women are. Except for me. I loved touching myself. I was more like a man. I didn’t notice until the last moment that my father was aware I was there. As his stream petered out, I looked at his face. He was in profile. One pale eye was fixed upon me, fey and warning. I blushed and turned my back. My chest was heaving.

“In my fantasy, I blush again but not with shame this time, not really. More with high emotion and that’s quite a desirable trait in me. I rarely feel much emotion during sexual encounters.

“I wonder if he needs to pee now but I don’t ask him that just yet. Instead, I say, ‘Are you thirsty?’

“His head jerks. Now he knows the person he is speaking to is a woman. Does it change his perception of the situation a little? I believe he relaxes just a tiny amount and a prickle of intrigue stirs in him. ‘Yes,’ he replies.

“ʽWater?’

“ʽYes. Please.’

“I am pleased by that ‘please’. This is the father I know and love, unfailingly polite. I pick up a carafe (that just happens to be beside me, of course!) and pour mineral water into a crystal tumbler. Only the best for my Daddy. Only beautiful things can touch him now. I bring the glass to his lips, the fingers of my other hand beneath his rough chin to gently lift it. He drinks awkwardly, slurping a little, a trickle running down his chin. I smile and when he is finished, I dab at his mouth with a tissue. He lets me.

“I have pulled up my chair and I am sitting very close to him now. I can smell him – male musk, fresh sweat, that expensive shampoo he uses on his boyishly-styled hair (he always was so endearingly vain about his hair) and cigarettes. I am going to touch him now. As my fingers trace his hairline down to his short sideburns, his body jolts. ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’ I don’t answer but continue with my tender touch. There’s a tremor in his muscles that gives away his fear. I do my best to distract him from it. My hand caresses his cheek, thumb rubbing across his lips. He gives an infinitesimal sigh as his lips open just a little. My hand runs down his thick neck to his chest and I circle it there, feeling the soft hair tickle my palm. I bring my other hand into play and together, they caress his entire upper body, coming down to his hands and stroking each finger. I can’t resist bending my head to kiss his fingers, too, worshipping those hands that have lifted me and washed me and dressed me, and shown me nothing but kindness.

“I can sense he’s confused but he’s excited, too. His heart rate is up. The nervous movements of his fingers and toes are stilled.

“I kneel on the floor before him and splay my hands on his abdomen. He has what I believe is called these days ‘a six-pack’. The horizontal muscles bulge against my hands as his belly heaves. Down his thighs I go, squeezing those hard muscles hard. He has slid forward in his seat, and his cock and balls are now thrust towards me. I tickle them gently, watch his stomach muscles clench, see his penis thicken and twitch. The golden light in this room is ubiquitous. Beyond his cock and balls I can see the cleft in his buttocks, the dark well that hides Daddy’s anus. I love that secret place on him. I love everything about him. When I have looked and teased enough, I reach up and put my arms around his neck, hanging on his neck like a little girl. His little girl. I’m going to kiss him. I move like a sloth, feeling the change in temperature as the heat of his skin hits me. Musk and cigarette are all around me now. I hold my mouth in front of his, letting him feel my breath on his lips, staring into the night of his blindfold. He knows I’m going to kiss him. When I move my head slightly, his follows. His head seems so much bigger than mine.

“Our lips just touch. It’s electric. I move in deeper and press my mouth to his. Smoothness, pressure, a touch of wetness, the burn of his stubble. Then his mouth opens and captures mine. We begin to slide our mouths against one another, sharing warm breath. I’m zinging inside, shame and delight and triumph mingling. I’m kissing my own father! His tongue moves across my lips then between them, probing my mouth. When his tongue meets mine, he rolls his over it, playfully. I can taste his spit. Some of him is inside me now.

“I’m learning how my father likes to kiss but it’s not the only thing I need to know about him. I need to know how sensuous he is, how broadminded, whether he is like me. Or not. I end our kiss with a last, luscious swirl, sucking on his lower lip as I pull back then I return to my seat. I remove all of my clothes. He knows what I’m doing and has his black bandaged head turned towards me the whole time, listening to the schssss of my clothes as they come off. His prick has stiffened a little and I can just see the pinker head emerging from his foreskin. I stare at his prick and his lips and his hairy chest as I begin to touch myself. I squeeze my nipples and roll them while I look at my father’s mouth and imagine him sucking on them. I part the lips of my pussy and rub the juice that is already present into my clitoris, tracing circles. What would my father think if he knew who was sitting here? It makes me feel wild and rebellious, rubbing my pussy right in front of Daddy’s face. I know he’s imagining what I’m doing, though. His mouth hangs open and his tongue is there just behind his bottom teeth, ready.

“So I test him. Trembling with my own boldness, my nipples standing out harder than I think they’ve ever been before, I climb to my feet and step over to him. I raise one leg and rest my foot on the backrest of his chair. My right hand moves down and again parts the outer lips of my pussy, exposing my inner labia and clitoris. My cunt hovers no more than a couple of inches from his face. I wait.

“Does he know what cunt smells like? Does he like it or is he prissy? Is he a bad man who loves to lick out the wet pussies of dirty girls?

“My father knows something has changed, that I’m closer to him. He can feel my calf against his shoulder. His head moves uncertainly. And then, something arrests his attention. He freezes. He’s caught my scent. He’s sniffing but he’s doing no more than that. I thrust my hips forward as far as they can go without unbalancing me and the pink lips of my inner cunt just bump against his mouth. He lets out a whimper and jerks his head, and I’m not certain whether it’s because he’s surprised or because he hates it. But I can’t hold back any more. My left hand plunges into his hair and pushes him forward to meet me. My labia are against his lips, my clitoris just beneath his nose. Then my father recognises what he’s being asked to do and his tongue strokes up the length of my pussy.

“My head falls back and I let out a cry of delight. This encourages him. He begins to lap in earnest, rapid passes over the entrance but it’s when he crooks his tongue and presses upwards with it, deeper inside my vagina itself that I can say for sure that he likes it.

“He loves to do it, to lick pussy. Daddy likes to get a wet pussy against his mouth and lick it until it comes. He moves up and closes his lips around my clitoris, suckling almost aggressively. I test him again, pulling back this time, and watch as his tongue reaches out for me, begging me not to leave. When I come back, he tickles my clitoris with the tip of his tongue before resuming his suckling. He knows exactly what to do.

“I’m going to come. The sight of my father’s head buried between my legs, my juices glistening on his lips and cheeks, his tongue writhing against me is too much. I grasp his head tightly and mash my pussy against him as the strong pulling sensation in my clitoris blooms into an orgasm. I jerk and jerk, making sure he tastes every moment of my climax. I want to cry with joy but I know that later, after I’ve fucked him, I will want to cry even more so I decide to save it until then.

“My father looks spent, lolling in his chair. With a tissue and an occasional sweep of my tongue, I wipe the remnant of my juice from his mouth. As I lean in close, he whispers again, ‘Who are you?’ and plants a kiss on the side of my neck.

“I look down. His prick is very stiff now. I clasp my fingers around its warmth and he hisses. ‘I – er –ʼ he seems to be finding something hard to say. ‘I need to pee.’

“There’s an empty carafe beside me, too. I pick it up and kneel between his legs again. Gently, lovingly, I place that prick that’s as stiff with its need to pee as anything else into the neck of the carafe. I do not remove my hand from the base of it. ‘Let go,’ I say softly. There’s a long pause. He looks agitated. I can’t help but smile. My poor father who stood there so confidently in the wood has gone shy around a stranger. I tickle the base of his penis encouragingly. When nothing happens, I stroke around his balls and explore even further down. I take one finger, move it along the crack of his arse then press upwards. I feel coarse hair and the bulge of his anus. I dabble it. My father gasps and for a moment, I feel an exquisite sense of control. Here I have him with his prick in a bottle and my finger on his shameful little hole, and there’s nothing he can do about it. I feel evil. And then there’s a spurt, a splash. He empties a very small amount of golden liquid into the carafe. I snigger and continue to tickle him, and soon he’s releasing a flood of piss, moaning with the release. This time, I have a ringside view. When he’s done, I pull his soft prick part way out, tap it gently against the glass to free it of its final drops and put the full carafe to one side. Then I take his cock in my mouth at last.

“There’s a final drop of urine at the head. I let it dissolve on my tongue then suck my way along the length. Instantly, he grows hard again. I rise to my knees as his hard-on moves upwards, sucking all the while. I let it slip out while I watch the head appear from beneath the foreskin and I rub my wet lips across it, circling my tongue. I mouth the head, feeling its extraordinary mushroom shape filling me. I’m wanking him at the same time, running my thumb along the big vein. A spurt of pre-cum christens me and I whimper as I taste its salt. I look up into Daddy’s face. He looks dreadfully sensual now, his mouth open, lower jaw jutting, breathing hard. The sweep of his belly and chest above me are magnificent. ‘I wish I could see you,’ he whispers. I shake my head with his prick still in my mouth so he feels it then begin to bob up and down, keeping up the suction. Worshipping it. Sometimes, I end the fantasy there with father thrusting strongly, me trying to take him into my throat and his cock delivering an explosion of semen into my mouth that quickly overwhelms it, the overflow trickling down my chin. But mostly, I go to the final stage.

“Having sucked his prick to its hardest, I get to my feet and clamber into his lap. He instantly pushes his torso forward to press it against my bare flesh and his mouth blunders, seeking mine. I plunge into kissing him again then I rise and press his cockhead against my pussy. ‘Yes. Oh yeah,’ says my Daddy and I push down, feeling his supreme cock pierce me. I cry out. I’m crying. I start to bounce on him – raw, gauche movements, urging him to penetrate me over and over. He’s thrusting as best he can in his awkward position, guttural cries ripped from his throat. I put my head back and give myself over to the rhythm, to the rhythm of my Daddy’s prick fucking my pussy. He finds my nipple. My nipples are the sort that are always erect, rather teat-like. Some men like that – others prefer softer nipples on larger breasts, the sort that need to be seduced into hardness. It seems my father likes mine just the way they are. He latches onto one teat with a firm suction and pulls on it. I love it. I want to come like that, with his cock plundering the depths of my cunt and his lips caressing my breast. With one hand on the back of the chair, I use the other to frig my clit. It’s as if his cock were made for me. The cockhead fills me without battering against my cervix; it’s thicker at the base, stretching the entrance of my cunt. I can feel every bump and vein on his hard-on, and each one stimulates my walls until I’m pouring with juice. It’s a fantasy – juice squirts out of me with every fuck he throws up into me.

“Suddenly, he frees my nipple and tilts his face towards mine. ‘Are you masturbating yourself?’ he asks. I think he can feel my fingers as they occasionally brush against his belly. ‘Do it. Rub that clit. Make yourself come. Let me feel your cunt squeeze me.’ He’s grinning now but the muscles in his cheeks have tightened – he’s not far off coming himself. ‘Yeah. Do it. Come for Daddy.’

“I scream and shudder as a deep-seated orgasm rips through me. My father’s prick pulses and I can feel, I can actually feel warm cream jet into me, splashing against my clenching walls. His eyes are shut tight, the tendons in his neck taut as the word rushes from his throat on a hurricane of breath - ‘Fuck!’ My orgasm lasts forever and so does his. We cling to each other, crying out our individual pleasure and luxuriating in each other’s.

“It usually ends with soft kisses and soft touches on particular parts of his anatomy – his hot neck, his heaving belly, his sweetly flaccid prick, the peaks of his distinctive eyebrows where they appear just above the blindfold, the palms of his hands.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Joe drained her mug. “And then, I suppose, I let him go.”

Seligman nodded. It was clear he understood it didn’t matter what came next. “But sometimes…?” he rejoined.

“Sometimes my father talks to me. ‘Who are you? You must tell me who you are. I have to know.’ He’s desperate, distracted, obsessed with me.”

“And you answer…?”

“Truthfully.” She stuck out her jaw in defiance. “I’m your daughter, Joe.”

“And he responds…?”

“Don’t you know?” But Seligman’s eyes were guileless, blank. After all this soul-baring, he still didn’t really understand. No-one would ever understand. She smiled, bleak tears present but not falling from her eyes. “He is utterly destroyed by it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I recognise the irony in writing a sex fantasy about a self-proclaimed nymphomaniac! What can I say? The undiscovered country of this pairing was just too tempting.


End file.
